Of Siblings and Similarities
by MonosyllabicAnswers
Summary: While drawing an awesome picture of a robo-polar bear with sword paws battling a burning velociraptor ridden by CondomMan, Canada finds himself musing over how, despite not looking very similar on the outside, Cuba and Puerto Rico share many character traits: Dislike of America, a love of rum, arguing, chain smoking. Watch as he documents the Caribbean siblings shenanigans.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia and was in the mood for some crack. Although, isn't Hetalia pretty much history on crack, anyway? Hrm…**

It was funny, Matthew noted as he doodled a robotic polar bear with swords for front legs biting off the head of a blazing velociraptor piloted by a condom-headed superhero on the sheet of paper of which he was supposed to be jotting down notes on the current world meeting, how some siblings could be so similar in appearance and yet have almost completely different personalities.

Take him and Alfred for example. Whereas Matthew himself was quiet, introverted, bookish, almost exceedingly polite, and could go unnoticed even if he were to jump on top of a table in the middle of a crowded Denny's while wearing lingerie and announcing himself the Colonel Mortimer Mustard, Alfred was…Alfred. Or Lovino and Feliciano; the abrasive, foul-mouthed, insecure Southern Italian was the polar opposite of his happy-go-lucky, sociable, not particularly bright younger brother, and yet their physical similarities were evident to anyone with eyes. Hell, even Gilbert rather resembled a shorter, less muscular, less hair gel-addicted, and less pigmented version of his younger brother Ludwig, and damn if those two weren't like night and day.

Violet eyes shifting to the two nations sitting parallel to him, Matthew repressed the urge to shake his head upon seeing that the two of them once again had identical expressions of seething irritation affixed towards his brother. _And herein lays the reverse, _he thought wryly.

At first glance, Juan and Camila didn't bear much of a resemblance to one another. Whereas Juan was tall, barrel-chested with a tendency towards a bit of excess weight around the middle and swarthy of complexion with dark hair pulled back into dreadlocks, his sister was diminutive, slim but curvy, and quite fair for someone who lived on a tropical island, with smooth, russet-coloured hair. However, what the two lacked in physical similarity they more than made up for in shared personality traits.

As if to prove his point, Juan and Camila both held up one end of a picture of an exceedingly large, veiny penis about to enter a wrinkled anus along with the caption 'This=You' scrawled above it, practically shoving the drawing into Alfred's face.

Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose as the room dissolved into raucous laughter, with the exception of Ludwig, who immediately began to shout for order, and Alfred, who scratched his head bemusedly.

"Are you calling me an assfuck or a fuckass? Either way, you guys suck like a hooker in a wind tunnel."

Meanwhile, a red-faced Ludwig turned his attention towards the two Caribbean countries, glaring at them. "What is the meaning of this?" He demanded.

Juan yawned and scratched the back of his neck. "Just showing Alfred what I really think about him," he replied carelessly. "And no, that doesn't mean that I wanna fuck him in the ass; I was calling him an ass fuck."

"I was overcome by the Imp of the Perverse," Camila chimed in. "He tells me to draw dicks on everything. Especially faces," she added.

Ludwig palmed his forehead, apparently struck by the migraine devil and not in the mood to yell any more than he had to. Truly a miracle of God. "Just apologize to Alfred," he sighed.

Juan raised his eyebrows so that they disappeared into his hairline. "Unless 'apologize' is synonymous with 'shank with a rusty screwdriver' I'm not doing it. If it is, then I'll apologize. _I'll apologize to him like he's never been apologized to before."_

While her older brother was busy with his mini soliloquy, Camila had taken the time to fold a piece of paper into an elaborately decorated whirlybird, which was rather bizarre seeing as how she'd managed to draw the sort of curlicues and birds in flight generally reserved for the borders of ostentatious wedding invitations all over the sides in a manner of seconds. Lifting up one of the corners of the whirlybird, Camila let out a low whistle. "Ooh, that's just _dirty_."

"…Do I even want to know?" Ludwig asked wearily.

Camila shrugged. "Probably not." She glanced down at the whirlybird clutched in her hand once again. "It says here that you're going to make a Portuguese breakfast."

"…What in the nine hells is a Portuguese breakfast?"

"Well, since you asked...First, you need a willing or hell; an unwilling participant will do if you've got some halothane on hand. That or start a gas leak, that always knocks people out after a while. Anyway, you crack some eggs against the other person's ass, beat the eggs along with whatever omelette accompaniments you desire in a bowl, stick a funnel up their ass, pour the egg mixture down their poop chute, and wait for the naturally warmer temperature of the rectal cavity to cook it up. After a few minutes, you've got your Portuguese breakfast," Camila explained calmly, as though she were discussing the weather.

Her explanation was met with a blank silence that was mercifully cut short by Juan before it could become anymore awkward.

"Why do you _know _that?" He asked in a strangled voice.

"You know how I sometimes rent out the third level of my house to tourists?" Camila asked him. Juan nodded. "Well, last month I was delivering a couple some fresh baked brownies. You know, that complimentary whatever bullshit like hotels do. Anyway, I walk in and find them in the middle of that very act; turns out they were into some really kinky shit."

Juan, along with everyone else in the room, blinked. "And you let them _stay _in your house?"

"Hey, what folks cook their eggs in is none of my business so long as they clean up after themselves. And leave me a good gratuity," Camila said as an afterthought. Sliding off her chair, she began to amble towards the door. "Welp, time for us to get going, bro; happy hour starts in ten minutes and I owe you a drink due to that little fiasco last week that we promised to never mention."

"Actually, you owe me five drinks, which is no big deal. So long as I get them, in which case, it's a big deal," Juan said as he followed after her.

As the polished wooden door swung shut with a tone of finality, everyone else in the room stared uncomfortably at one another for a long moment before Matthew finally deigned to point out what they'd all been thinking. Much to his surprise and gratification, they actually heard him for a change.

"…Isn't the meeting for another hour?" He asked.

"Yes, yes it is-Ludwig began, only to be cut short by the re-entrance of the Cuban and Puerto Rican nations…Via the window.

Brushing shards of glass off his shoulder, Juan gave a careless grin as he strode over to his desk. "Forgot my jacket," he said casually. Grabbing the aforementioned jacket, he slung it over his shoulder, walked towards the massive hole in the window that he and his sister had created, and leapt out of it with all of the nonchalance of someone who's long accustomed to entering and exiting places using closed windows.

"I just wanted to jump in through the window," Camila offered before strolling over towards a flowerpot resting atop a plant stand in the corner, knocking it to the ground with a swipe of her hand, where it promptly shattered, and leaping out of the window as well.

Everyone stared for a bit, and then-

"Why are they so needlessly destructive? I didn't raise them to behave like this!" Wailed Antonio, who had apparently gotten a bit into his cups and become sentimental as a result.

"Anyone raised by you is bound to have a few screws loose. Everyone knows that you're a terrible father," Arthur muttered, causing Antonio to sob harder.

"That's not true!"

"Oh yes it is, bastardo. You're the fucking worst," Lovino agreed. "Why else do you think I'm so angry all of the time?"

"I honestly thought that maybe you suffered from constant haemorrhoids or something," Antonio admitted, which earned him a dirty look and a one-finger salute.

"I second that everything and anything Antonio does is made of fail," Lars added, only to be slapped upside the head by his sister.

"Stop being so mean to Antonio," Emma snapped, hand raised threateningly for another slap.

Lars rolled his eyes. "At the risk of being slapped again, I will now say that Antonio is such a pussy that not only does he need his girlfriend to fight for him, but her rubbing his back is legally certified as a lesbian fisting scene." A loud thwack could be heard echoing around the room as Emma's hand connected once again with his head. "Worth it," Lars declared even as he rubbed the sorely abused back of his head. "Oh yeah, and he also gets charged for a bikini wax whenever he gets a haircut."

"I never understood the appeal of fisting. It seems so…Gauche," Francis said, earning him some confused glances. "What?"

"Just surprised that there's a type of sex act that you're _not_ a fan of, Francy pants," Alfred told him. "I always sorta figured that everything gave you a boner. Like jelly doughnuts and hardwood floors, y'know?" He raised his hand, waving it in the air like a pedantic schoolboy for good measure. "By the way, anyone else wondering by the hell it's called the_ Portuguese_ breakfast?"

Immediately, everyone's eyes swung onto Abrahan, who shrunk beneath their curious gazes. "_I _didn't invent it!" He cried. "Do I _look_ like I'd be into freaky shit like that?!"

Alfred shook his head fervently. "Nah, you're way too vanilla. Maybe it was invented in Brazil…"

"Hey, fuck you, twat bucket," Joana shouted at him. "I am sick to the back teeth of everyone thinking I'm some sort of freak ever since one of my citizens produced that 2 Girls 1 Cup Video!"

"…That was _you_?" Alfred asked, flabbergasted.

Joana dropped her head down onto her desk. "Dammit, I've said too much…"

"Ugh, that video was fucking _sick_…"

"I dunno. I heard that there's a sequel that's the mental equivalent of watching your grandma drown in a vat of diarrhoea…"

"Is it weird that I found 2 Girls 1 Cup sort of hot?"

"…If that's true, please do the world a favour and go swallow a knife…"

"I, uh, meant that metaphorically...Totally metaphorically…"

Shaking his head, Matthew added a shark riding a rocket-powered surfboard into his doodle and wondered how his musing on the similarities of siblings had gone so far astray.

**Disclaimer: I don't know how this happened. My train of thought tends to go in strange directions. **


	2. Of Big Brothers and Bar Fights

**Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own Hetalia. **

When Matthew stepped into the pub, he found himself nearly blown back by the pervading stench of hard liquor hanging in the nicotine-laced, hazy hair and the thunderous crash of the band standing atop the ramshackle stage and playing an extremely loud rendition of Cattle Decapitation's _Testicular Manslaughter. _

Between the fact that all of the furniture was busted to hell, the walls were covered in graffiti, the floor was made of cement and covered in grime and blood, the only lighting was provided in the form of several bare bulbs swinging overhead and flickering uncertainly, and everyone, the barman included, appeared to be pissass drunk, Matthew was fairly certain that this was not a safe place to be. His suspicions were confirmed by a drunken man covered in prison tattoos collapsing next to the door of the washroom only to be hefted up by each limb by a group of leather-clad bikers and unceremoniously hauled through a window. Amidst the glissando of breaking glass Matthew heard a faint 'no ma, I don't wanna go to school today' followed by a groan of pain before the unfortunate man landed on the pavement.

Sidling unnoticed onto an empty stool, Matthew surveyed the platter of toothpicked jumbo shrimp set before him, wondering if eating them would give him iodine poisoning. "I can't believe Juan and Camila hang out in seedy places like this," he mumbled to himself.

Whirling around as an arm flung itself around his neck, Matthew found himself face to face with the aforementioned twosome. "Better believe it, Matteo," Juan boomed, drink sloshing in his hand as he waved it through the air. "There's no better place for cheap drinks and quality entertainment than a shithole like this!"

"Nothing like a dodgy dive bar to keep all of the parents in a community on their toes," Camila added, daintily sipping from a bottle of clear liquid that smelled rather of rubbing alcohol.

Matthew wrinkled his nose. "What is that you're drinking and how are you not on the floor?" He asked.

Camila grinned, brandishing the bottle at him as though it were a beer stein. "Everclear, 95% ABV, my friend, and my liver remains undefeated in all bouts against alcohol," she said proudly.

"At least until your liver dissolves into a powerful disinfectant," Matthew quipped. "That or jet fuel."

"Eh, at least it'll still be useful."

Just then, the barman, a man in his twenties with dark shaggy hair and bloodshot grey eyes gestured a wobbly arm towards Camila. "You," he slurred, "Are you old enough to be in here?"

"Boyo, I've been old enough to drink before you were even a thought in your father's testes," Camila told him.

"Ionno," the barman continued suspiciously, "Your age is pretty amber…ambien…ambivalent…

"Ambiguous?" Juan offered.

The barman snapped his fingers. "That's it! Ambiguous. Your age is ambiguous. Very. Yeah. God I'm wasted…"

Camila raised her eyebrows before taking another swig of her drink and setting the bottle down onto the counter with an audible plink. "Pray tell, how?"

"You've got a face like a little girl, the body of a porn star, and the height of a pygmy. I can't tell if you're underage or not and it's confusing the hell out of my boner," the barman informed her while scratching at his stubble.

Juan's left eye began to twitch. "Put your confusion boner anywhere near my sister and I'll tear it off and use it as a swizzle stick."

The barman held up his hands in a placating manner. "Hey, hey, no need to start with the Freudian threats, mate," he began.

"One, you're not my friend. Two, you have five seconds to vacate the premises before I go Patrick Swayze on your ass and toss you through a plate glass window. And three, I love how you regained sobriety by checking out my sister. Apparently she's a cure for inebriation, who knew," Juan interrupted, glowering at the other man.

"Before I go, I'd just like to point out the fact that there are no plate glass windows here," the barman stated.

Camila threw him a half-lidded glance accompanied by a coquettish smirk. "Allow me to amend my brother's statement," she said smoothly. "Leave now before I jam a pipe cleaner down your pisshole." For emphasis, she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a modified pipe cleaner that had been stripped of its outer layer of cotton to reveal the sharp length of wire beneath, which was covered in small, tooth-like filaments like a wire saw. "But by all means, stay if you want to help me make a necklace out of your urethral lining," Camila added.

Apparently not willing to risk to see if she was bluffing or not, the barman pushed himself away from the counter in order to stumble towards the exit, all while muttering about 'fucking whackjob customers.'

As the door slammed shut, Matthew turned a weary look on Juan and Camila, who were once again happily nursing their drinks without a care in the world.

"Do you guys always do that?" He asked.

Juan took a long draught of his rum and let out a loud belch, earning him a round of applause from several other patrons. "Do what all the where?"

Matthew sighed at his friends' selective obliviousness. "Threaten bartenders into leaving their posts," he elaborated.

"Eh," Juan said with a careless wave of his hand, "That guy was asking for it. Fucking sleaze."

Matthew folded his arms across his chest, unimpressed. "Lofty words from the guy who, as he so eloquently puts it, 'gets more ass than a toilet seat'," he said dryly.

Juan frowned, looking offended. "That's different. Ladies can't deny the Latin spice. I don't sit around acting like a creeper and using cheesy pickup lines or sleazy comments; they just come to me. And it's my job as the older sibling to make sure no freaks try any bullshit on Camila. No one hits on my baby sister when I'm around," he declared.

"I guess that explains why you punched me in the kidney that time I asked her if I could borrow a pen."

"Actually, I thought you were Alfred. I seriously hate your brother. Have I mentioned that lately?"

"Only all of the fucking time. It's getting kind of old."

"Yeah, well, until that twat sucker gets Guantanamo out of my house, I'm gonna mention how I hate him and his stupid face every time we see each other."

"Is that a threat or a promise? I honestly can't tell."

Juan took another swig of his drink before setting it down on the counter and gazing contemplatively within its sparkling golden depths as though it held the answer to the meaning of life. "Both," he said after a moment.

Matthew nodded and shoved his spectacles further up his nose. "All right, so I can expect roughly a century of complaints. Got it." Pausing as the lyrics' 'I've a shotgun aimed at your testicles-To shred your testes and sever adjacent vesicles' was growled out amidst the wailing of electric guitars and the crashing of drums, Matthew winced, shaking his head. "Well that was…Disturbing…"

"Eh, what do you expect from a place like this? For _Glad You Came _to start playing whenever someone walks in? This is a dive bar, not an alcoholics anonymous meeting," Juan sniggered.

"I'm pretty sure that dive bars and AA-meetings are polar opposites."

"Damn straight," asserted Camila, who was now sipping through a crazy straw from a yard glass of what Matthew presumed to be pure ethanol, judging by the smell. "It's a Pissed Off Japanese Minnow Farmer," she explained, as though sensing his confusion.

Juan blinked at his sister. "What the hell is even _in _that?"

Camila puckered her brow in thought. "Let's see…This one's got vodka, peach schnapps, amaretto almond liqueur, raspberry schnapps, Midori melon liqueur, sweet and sour mix, and cranberry juice."

Matthew eyed the yard glass, which was already down a quarter of its contents. "What are the proportions of this drink, exactly?" He asked tentatively.

"Damn it, I figured this out earlier," Camila muttered. Doing some quick finger calculating, she smiled at him. "Okay, considering the size of this, what I'm drinking is worth three shots of vodka, six shots of schnapps, three shots of amaretto, and three shots of melon liqueur," she said cheerily. "Should give me a nice little buzz." That being said, she returned to sipping down her oversized drink, this time draining roughly half of the remaining liquid.

Matthew turned to Juan, flabbergasted. "How does she not get drunk?" He demanded.

Juan grinned in a conspiratorial manner as he glanced towards his sister from the corner of his eye. "No idea, but the funny thing is that Camila skips drunk and goes right to hungover. An hour after she's finished drinking she'll get a migraine, fall asleep, and wake up good as new. It's like clockwork."

"What's so funny about that?"

Juan just continued to grin. "You'll see."

Indeed, Matthew did wind up seeing. Once Camila had finished her drink and the hour hand finished its sixty minute rotation on the face of the clock overlooking the bar, she dropped her head into her arms and began to mumble about how her brain felt as though a wombat had made its den inside of it and then shit in it.

While she sat there, slumped over the bar and letting out the occasional moan of pain, a group of five men wearing ski masks and clutching guns and sacks burst through the door, letting in a dazzling stream of sunlight.

Before any of them could make the demand for the contents of the cash register, Camila snarled in a voice that made even the singer of the band onstage stare at her in surprise "Either close the door or fuck off back into your mother's birth canal, you stupid cunt!"

"Hey, this is our first heist, you little bitch! I'm not gonna let you ruin it," the apparent leader of the robbers shouted.

Camila's teeth pulled back from her teeth in a hideous parody of a smile. "I'll ruin your asshole with a broken bottle of Dewar's if you don't shut the fuck up." Before anymore imprecations could be hurled, Camila pushed off from the bar in a sudden blur of motion, somehow managed to get behind the man, and slammed her foot into the back of his knee. His leg wobbled for a moment before collapsing beneath him, sending him in a clumsy pile onto the floor and putting his head at level with the bar. Apparently in no mood to fuck around, Camila then proceeded to grab him by the back of his collar and slam his head several times into the wood so violently that it left an imprint of his grimacing face etched inside of the crater that the impact of his skull had made.

Juan, not one to be left out, snatched his mug from the countertop and hurled it into the second man's face. It sailed dramatically through the air for three seconds before hitting him between the eyes and shattering. While he was busy screaming and clawing at the jagged glass shards cutting his eyeballs into ribbons, Juan hefted up his currently unoccupied barstool and brought it down on the shrieking man's skull with a resounding thwack, and continued to do so until the wood finally gave way and broke apart against his head in an explosive shower of splinters.

Meanwhile Matthew, who hitherto had been unnoticed by the robbers and was still sitting at the bar, watched the display of gratuitous violence with wide eyes. "I suppose invisibility has its perks," he muttered as he watched Juan dispatch the third robber by diving off the stage with a scream while hefting the guitarists' Gibson Flying V like a sword, bringing it down on the man's head with so much force that the guitar actually broke against his skull with a cartoonish twanging of snapping guitar strings and wound up lodged around his neck. Juan then proceeded to lift him bodily into the air by grasping the guitar's neck, and spun him around in a giant swing like the propeller of a helicopter for a full minute before simply letting go, at which point physics promptly flipped the man the bird and sent him sailing out of a window, the act of which finally broke the last remaining window of the pub. At least everything was symmetrical now.

Opting against dramatics, Camila instead chose to employ a more hands-on fighting style against the fourth perpetrator, or perhaps feet-on would be a more apt description, as she somehow managed to land a double-legged flying kick to his groin that simultaneously sent him through the cue table and turned his genitalia into a hot foot bath; Matthew was pretty sure that he saw some sort of chunky liquid running down the leg of the man's trousers.

It was, Matthew noted as he cupped his balls in shared male agony, the sort of kick that left one's manhood looking like little more than a hot dog that had been shoved into the whirring blades of a garbage disposal. After he finished mulling over the savagery that had just been committed, Matthew realised something of great importance. "Where's the fifth guy?"

The fifth guy, it turned out, was attempting to rush Camila from the side. She heard him coming and swung around, ready to deal out the pain, but Matthew, seeing the opportunity for doing a good deed, stuck his foot out, sending the man sprawling. Before he could pull himself to his feet, Matthew, urged on by the sudden surge of adrenaline flowing through his body, grabbed the nearest object, which just so happened to be a bottle of Ass Reaper hot sauce, and smashed it against his face, sending not only glass fragments but a stream of liquid fire to rape his eyeballs and irritate his cuts.

As the men fell to the floor, screaming, Matthew let out a primal scream and proceeded to stomp the man's nasal bone into the general vicinity of his throat. Throwing his arms up into the air, Matthew roared "TAKE THAT, ALFRED!" Then he looked up towards the ceiling, baffled. "Why did I say that?"

"Repressed rage?" Camila suggested.

"And resentment?" Juan added.

Matthew ran a hand through his hair, looking thoughtful. "Yeah, probably." He affixed the two of them with a stern gaze. "You guys are a bad influence."

"Actually, I think we're pretty good for you. Camila and I will make your balls grow so huge that it'll look like you're sitting on a flesh-coloured beanbag and you'll need them to be lifted by an industrial crane just so you can walk down the pavement!" Juan declared, pumping his fist.

"But…I like being able to walk without the aid of a crane," Matthew argued. He looked to Camila for help, but before she could suggest to her brother that there was no need to enhance his testicularity, she curled up on the floor like a cat, yawning all the while.

"Sleepy time," she muttered before falling fast asleep amidst a pile of bleeding, unconscious bodies and spilled liqueur.

Juan laughed. "Hah! Fell out two hours in; she owes me fifty bucks."

Matthew shook his head and absentmindedly stepped on the face of one of the fallen robbers as he made his way back to his seat, a muffled crunch sounding underfoot as he did so. "Craziest night ever…" He mumbled as he sat down.

"It ain't a good night unless you've kicked some ass and drank enough to keep a ship afloat," Juan stated with a nod of his head.

Matthew laid his head on the bar counter and closed his eyes. "According to that philosophy, I've wasted ninety-five percent of my nights."

Juan threw his arm around Matthew's shoulders. "Then let's reclaim those wasted nights! Quick, help me get Camila into the car; we're going to a strip club!" He paused. "Wait, first, we need to go the bank to get some dollar bills, and _then _we go to the strip club!"

"…Suddenly my life has become another teen movie. Someone punch me," Matthew said dully even as Juan, clutching a still sleeping Camila tucked beneath his right arm, hauled him towards the exit by his collar.

"T and A first, punching later," Juan informed him. "God only knows you'll end up getting a lap dance from a stripper with a jealous steroidal boyfriend who bursts into the place Hulk-style and demanding your limbs, knowing your luck."

"Hoo-fucking-ray."

**A/N: Dollar bills are a major facet of strip club etiquette. I think.**


End file.
